


"Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy"

by Likorys



Series: Tumblr snippets [10]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Geralt does his best but sometimes it's not enough, because Jaskier has no cruel bone in his body, but Jaskier's happy to help, even if they're supposed to hate each other now, witcher's work is dirty and hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23177713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: Geralt has to deal with a crazed mage and others pay the price. Jaskier comes to the rescue and they just might reconcile.
Series: Tumblr snippets [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1651510
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	"Show me a hero, and I’ll write you a tragedy"

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a quote by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Mages are the worst kind of monster to be sent after. Geralt knew it long before Stregobor, even if he pushed the limit of atrocities he came to expect from such _encounters._

However, he wasn’t the first one to do so… nor was he the last.

Leena was an old village healer who secluded herself in a forest, where children started to disappear. Her limbs are twisted and necrotizing from overuse of magic, body old and shrivelling with loose skin hanging off, but a face as pretty as a picture painted in blood and lies of children she’d sacrifice to keep it this way.

He went for a kill as soon as he found her, because magic was among the few things that posed a true danger even to him.

He thought he was ready for every trick she could have, but once again _a mage pushed at the boundaries he expected of the world._

The first of the lost children landed on the ground, gurgling blood, cut cleanly in two at the chest, eyes white as milk and hypnotized, a cursed brand burned onto the skin of a shaved head. He's able to strike the next tree at the neck, killing them quicker, blood spraying onto him. One jumps at his back and gets crushed against the wall, ribs breaking like twigs. Next two manage to cut at his knee and arm by pure chance before sword splits their bellies open.

They had no skill and no idea how to use daggers clutched in small fingers. It didn’t make the killing any easier.

Mage run out of the children to throw before her, at least, and it became obvious why she resorted to such methods: she didn’t have much skill herself. The one curse she manages to land is weak and only maks him dizzy instead of knocking him out. A silver sword cuts through her neck after only a minute.

It took less to _kill her_ than to _get to her_.

Geralt goes back on foot, dripping blood, fingers clutching tangled hair as the head sways in his grip, the face frozen in a disappointed pout and still looking pretty as a picture, magic clinging to the skin.

He grabs Roach and gives her a moment to stomp in place before she sniffs at his hair and recognizes him enough to settle. He leads her through the main street and people give him even wider berth than usual which he’s glad for.

Until a young boy comes closer, looking over Geralt with a hopeful smile that vanishes like a snuffed candle as he sees the head in his grasp. He turns to sob into his mother’s apron, her face pale, haunted eyes closing as she stroked his head. They both have dark hair and Geralt now knows exactly how they would scatter when cut with a sword, how darker still they would get when coated with blood.

He brings the head to the men who hired him and leaves without a word nor payment. He turns to leave the place before he’s cast out, for once in agreement that he has no right to stay. Not after slaying their children because he was too weak and too stupid to realize what the mage would do when cornered.

He’s not sure if Leena’s curse hit him stronger than he previously thought or if it's something else, but the road sways in front of his eyes and he barely holds onto Roach long enough to slide off the fence before he blacks out.

He wakes up in a bed, which is _surprising_ , and to the sounds of a lute which is _impossible_ enough to cut through the last bits of grogginess from the curse. Jaskier left on that mountain, left exactly as Geralt screamed at him to do and he hadn’t seen him since.

He’s not sure how long it was. Long enough to make his heart break at the mere thought of meeting him again, not enough to let him kill whatever he feels for the man.

Too long, not long enough, but clearly enough to make him appear in his delirium, because Jaskier would never-

“I hope you waking up means I used the right one.” He voice is so painfully familiar though, wood polish and chamomile fresh in the air, and then the words register and Geralt looks around.

His swords lay clean on the table, a dozen potions are strewn around, one vial empty. His bag is on the floor and on the chair sits Jaskier, with one of Geralt’s shirts loose on his frame and tucked into bright red pants, lute on his lap.

“What were you thinking?” Jaskier moves on quickly despite the silence, and the wave of nostalgia hits Geralt worse than fighting Leena. It’s selfish and terrifying and even worse than before. “Your necklace-thingy was shaking worse than when we met that Doppler, why would you leave in such state?!” he’s _fussing over him_ and Geralt can’t stand it.

Not after yesterday.

“I deserved it.” He grunts out, raising on his elbows to sit up, fully intending to leave right away.

Jaskier sighs and it sounds so broken it halts him immediately. Jaskier’s eyes are ice-cold at they look Geralt over and then turn away as he strums idly at the cords again, but the air is salty with sadness and regret.

“They’re very thankful, you know.” He says, tone light. “Very glad indeed you brought back the corpses for a proper burial. You owe me seven shirts, by the way, and I’m keeping this one.” He shakes a sleeve up to his elbow when it catches on the string and dulls the sound. If Geralt was better with words, he'd catch the metaphor here. “My send-off songs for each kid helped, although a few hours is hardly enough for anything good...”

Geralt frowns for a moment, still coming to after the curse, but the number refreshes his memory (one cut in half, three beheaded, one crushed, two spilling their guts).

Jaskier’s hands are red and scratched, fingers covered in needle-pricks and nails black with dirt. He catches Geralt looking and puts the lute away, hides his hands in the sleeves.

“Skin’s easier to sew when it’s not set in rigor mortis.” He says weakly and it breaks something in Geralt.

“I’m sorry.” Spill from his mouth, then again “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, Jaskier, I’m so sorry-”

He can’t seem to stop, his breaths coming in short and his eyes watering even as he tries to force himself to calm down and rubs at his face.

Because this is the last thing he deserves and yet here’s Jaskier, once again, saving his skin and so much more. Doing what Geralt should’ve if he wasn’t too busy feeling sorry for himself to think about others.

And that’s the issue, isn’t it? Always so overwhelmed by his own misery he doesn’t consider others. It cost him Yennefer and should’ve cost him Jaskier, but somehow he’s still here despite everything he did and said.

“I got it the first dozen times.” Jaskier smiles, soft and indulgent as he sits on the edge of the bed. “Come here.” He grabs at Geralt arm and pulls him closer, guiding his face to his neck.

He still smells _the same_ , wood polish and smoke and petrichor and chamomile, as if they parted yesterday. When Geralt’s hand lands on his leg, the red fabric is worn under his fingers, a subtle line of stitches fixing a seam. This close the pants look the same as well and he can see the familiar pattern on a doublet hanging on the chair.

Geralt breaks apart completely, but all Jaskier does is brush his hair away as he lets him choke out one apology after another between sobbing that barely lets him breathe.

He’s not sure if he blacks out again or just succumbs to exhaustion. He wakes still on the bed, his head on Jaskier’s lap and a lute supported on his arm. Fingers still move gently through his hair, bard’s other hand busy plucking a slow tune on the cords.

“ _I am a creature of habit and I move in circles around you._ ” Jaskier’s voice is just as soft as his touch. “ _I will admit there's a pattern, one I created myself_...” When Geralt glances up, blue eyes are looking outside the window.

He can smell the smoke slowly sneaking through the closed window and hear the faint echo of drums and a burial song he partially recognizes.

He hopes the children will at least find peace.

He has no illusion their families will, not for a long time.

“ _This time it's different, the rules don't apply… but I need some distance to fall back in line._ ” Jaskier’s voice changes, or rather moves, coming much closer. He must be looking down and Geralt is too afraid to look up, because the words are more than enough to make his heart break already.

Of course, Jaskier doesn’t stop there and Geralt knows he deserved it, but it only makes it hurt more.

“ _So grant me this wish and meet me back here in a year. If we still exist, I can let go of my fear - fear of normalcy, fear of the solid walls of our future and let go of our past._ ”

Geralt bites his tongue until its numb and bleeding, then shakily nods his head. He moves closer, reaching to grab at the hand playing the lute and brings it to his face. He presses a short kiss to the fingers and then just holds it close.

Jaskier laughs, then sighs and finally pushes him a little to half-lay on the pillows. He continues petting his hair and at some point Geralt falls asleep, no matter how much he tries to keep his eyes open.

When he wakes up, the room is empty. His bag is missing a shirt and there is a coin purse on the table. When he goes down the owner of the tavern gives him breakfast and his thanks for the help. The smell of smoke clings to his skin and the blond hair is as bright as a braid that spilt lose after being cut in half.

Geralt eats, then rides to the next town, passing the still smouldering pyres. They stink of burning fabrics wet with oil and when he looks, he can see scraps of bright colour that wind has thrown too far to burn.

When he reaches the town, he buys good silk and threads, then finds a seamstress. He’s got enough coin left to pay for half of her quote, so he leaves Roach by her shop and goes to find a contract.

Later that night, he goes to sleep and counts down the first day of many.

It's still better than counting down another one of forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by fanart by artmadval to be fund here: https://artmadval.tumblr.com/post/190258360022/that-feeling-when-u-just-done-with-the-work-and
> 
> The song I used is slightly changed parts of Habits by Maria Mena.


End file.
